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"It is so," quoth Quartilla; "can ye sleep when ye know it is the vigil to Priapus?" at what time Ascyltos snor'd so soundly, that Psyche, not yet forgeting the disapointment, he gave her, all besooted his face, and scor'd down his shoulders with a burnt sticks end.
His angry steed did chide his foaming bit, As much disdaining to the curb to yield: Full jolly knight he seem'd, and fair did sit, As one for knightly jousts and fierce encounters fit. But on his breast a bloody cross he bore, The dear remembrance of his dying Lord, For whose sweet sake that glorious badge he wore, And dead as living ever him ador'd; Upon his shield the like was also scor'd."
And on his brest a bloodie crosse he bore, The deare remembrance of his dying Lord, For whose sweete sake that glorious badge he wore, And dead, as living ever, him ador'd: Upon his shield the like was also scor'd, For soveraine hope, which in his helpe he had, Right faithfull true he was in deede and word; But of his cheere did seeme too solemne sad; Yet nothing did he dread, but ever was ydrad.
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